


Indelible

by ember_firedrake



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2091723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_firedrake/pseuds/ember_firedrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be easy to say it started with a look, Lipton’s warm eyes catching his when the lieutenant’s bar was pinned to his collar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indelible

It would be easy to say it started with a look, Lipton’s warm eyes catching his when the lieutenant’s bar was pinned to his collar. 

It would be less easy to write this off as inconsequential, the looks and touches leading to this point as he stepped toward Lipton in their shared room, hand reaching up to trace the scar on Lipton’s cheek. Lipton’s eyes fluttered, but they didn’t close as Speirs observed him, searching for any sign of reticence.

In truth, it started in Foy, adrenaline coursing through him after his sprint across the field to relieve Dike, rattling off instructions to Lipton before he went to link up with I Company. Lipton was an attentive NCO, if somewhat staggered by the circumstances, and had accepted the change without argument and carried out his orders without question. There had been no time to get a measure of Lipton or any of the other men. He’d had more pressing matters to concern him, like the German 88 artillery shells. 

It was a short time later, finding out how Lipton diverted the attention of a German sniper, when Speirs had paused to actually consider the first sergeant now under his command.

That look, though, that expression on the now-lieutenant Lipton’s face. He had smiled awkwardly at Winters, almost sheepish on receiving the promotion, but then meeting Speirs’ face again he had ducked his head. In spite of himself, Speirs smiled as he stepped forward to shake Lipton’s hand. Lipton glanced up briefly, as if aware he revealed too much in his expression, and they left the room together. It would be easy to say it started with that look, but in truth it was a culmination.

Speirs had first seen that look in the Rachamps convent, and hadn’t quite known what to make of it. He knew Lipton had been impressed by his actions in Foy, but he’d had his orders and carried them out. He had little care for what the men thought or said of him. Except…

Except Speirs had seen how the men of Easy admired and looked up to Lipton, and the regard he held for them in return. He’d seen that regard directed at him, and it had made something catch in Speirs’ chest. 

_The only hope you have is to accept the fact that you’re already dead. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll be able to function as a soldier is supposed to function: without mercy, without compassion, without remorse._

Speirs had told himself that often enough that he almost believed it. He certainly gave off the impression that he believed it, but truthfully there was only so much distance he could place between himself and the things he did. There was only so long a person could function without mercy, compassion or remorse before they needed something to pull them back. For him, it was the way Lipton’s brown eyes had gone soft at the corners, smiling at him in the candlelight of the Rachamps convent.

That expression was mirrored in Lipton’s eyes now, as Speirs traced the scar on Lipton’s face with his thumb. “Tell me if you don’t want this,” Speirs said, before he leaned in. He pressed his lips to the scar first, then, hearing no protest, to Lipton’s mouth. Lipton responded in kind, his lips parting as he returned the kiss. They’d cleaned up in the garrison showers earlier that day, but neither of them had had time to shave, and their combined stubble created a drag of friction that had Speirs leaning forward, eager for more.

It was Lipton whose hands moved first, deftly undoing the top two buttons of Speirs’ jacket. Speirs grinned against his mouth. “I like it when my officers take initiative,” he said, eliciting a blush from Lipton.

“Sir, I—” 

“Lieutenant,” Speirs said—soothing, grounding. “It’s okay.”

A half-step forward brought their bodies in contact, layers of fabric separating skin. Lipton let out a soft exhale at the evidence of their shared desire. Neither of them hesitated then, stripping each other with a brisk efficiency that only the army could instill. 

Speirs pressed Lipton into the bed, kissing him as he reveled in the feel of their skin touching. Lipton’s body was firm muscle beneath his fingertips, built up over two years of training and frequent runs up Currahee. Speirs had made those same runs with his old company, though never to the degree that Easy had under Sobel. He stared, awed, as he mapped skin and muscle with his touch. 

In a way, Speirs was also checking up on Lipton after his recent bout of pneumonia. It had reached a critical point several days ago, with the medic from the aid station threatening to take Lipton off the line. Lipton, of course, had insisted he remain with the men. He’d even tried to insist he take the floor of their shared room that night, as the enlisted man among the two of them. On that, Speirs had firmly put his foot down. He had no more wanted Lipton gone from Easy than Lipton had wanted to go, especially not with this strange esteem he harbored for the man, but he was damned if he’d let Lipton sleep on the floor while he was sick. 

“You’re taking the bed. That’s an order,” He’d said, his voice firm.

Lipton, then pale and shuddering with chills, had nodded in resignation before allowing himself to be bundled beneath covers. Lipton’s coughing that night had made Speirs’ insides seize with an icy fear he hadn’t felt thus far in the war. His hand, when Speirs had grasped it, had been clammy and his forehead was burning. Speirs had piled more blankets on the bed, and was struck with the mad desire to climb into bed with Lipton, in case his own body heat might help. Dismissing the thought as foolhardy—the risk was too great and Lipton surely wouldn’t appreciate the presumption—he had gone in search of anything that might help.

Speirs had returned half an hour later with a bottle of schnapps and apple strudel, and insistence from the locals that it was a proven home remedy. He wasn’t sure how much he believed that, but the liquor at the very least could help provide a deep sleep. It was a testament to how sick Lipton was that he didn’t even protest when the glass was offered to him, only took grimacing sips before saying, hesitatingly, that it was the first alcohol he’d ever had. 

Considering what he knew of Lipton, the news had come as no surprise to Speirs. He didn’t want his first sergeant—soon to be lieutenant—feeling self-conscious around him, however, so he’d raised the half-empty schnapps bottle in toast.

“There’s a first time for everything,” he said, then took a long pull from the bottle. 

Lipton smiled, and Speirs’ stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with liquor. He matched Lipton sip for sip, though he probably held the schnapps bottle to his lips a little longer than Lipton did his glass. In the end, with Lipton’s alcohol tolerance being negligible, they were at about the same level of impairment. The strudel remained forgotten until Speirs blearily pointed it out, which set Lipton grinning with far more amusement than the situation warranted. He tried to split it, but Speirs pushed both halves of the pastry towards Lipton, insistent. 

Lipton ate the strudel quietly, blinking tired eyes at Speirs. It hadn’t escaped Speirs’ notice that Lipton’s coughing had abated. Were he more sober, he might not have noticed the searching glint in Lipton’s eyes. 

“I smoked my first cigarette in the Bois Jacques,” Lipton said, voice suddenly somber. “A shell hit my foxhole, but it turned out to be a dud. I’d never smoked in my life, but I had one then.”

“The stress of war,” Speirs said by way of explanation. “Things you wouldn't have considered, they become necessary in order to cope. Desires you'd never—”

Speirs had snapped his mouth shut, cursing the alcohol that had loosened his tongue. Now was not the time to be thinking about _desires_ when the subject of his thoughts was in the same room as him.

And it wasn't entirely true, what he'd said. He'd had those thoughts even before the war. The only difference was, war made all those taboos seem meaningless. He'd never been much of a believer, but the Bible was pretty clear on killing, and pretty clear on what it deemed unnatural. But here they were, far from home, killing in the name of country. What did it matter what the Bible thought of that other stuff?

He hoped Lipton was drunk enough not to have noticed his gaffe, and when he looked up, Lipton's eyes were closed, his mouth gone slack. Speirs waited a bit longer until he was sure Lipton slept, then reached a hand out to cup Lipton's as he fell into a somewhat troubled sleep. 

In the morning, the worst of Lipton's symptoms were gone, and the medic proclaimed he'd never seen anything like it. Lipton just shrugged and gave a sheepish smile, though every few moments he regarded Speirs with a searching gaze. 

When they had a brief moment alone, Lipton had glanced over and said, quietly, "What you said last night...started to say, that is...I feel that way, too, sir."

Speirs had gone very still. It would be easy to deny what Lipton said. To put it down to the alcohol, to say Lipton was mistaken. In doing so, however, he would be breaking the man’s trust in him. Lipton had taken a great risk in speaking his feelings aloud, and to a superior officer, no less. And—Speirs’ chest felt tight with a barely-acknowledged hope—Lipton was saying his feelings were reciprocated...could he truly deny he wanted the same?

Speirs opened his mouth to speak—to say what, he wasn’t yet sure—only to be called away by Winters. He looked back towards Lipton, flashing a look that he hoped would communicate what he truly wanted to say.

“Get some rest, sargeant. You may be out of the woods, but you’re not up to full health just yet.” 

“Yes, sir.”

That was their last exchange until Lipton’s promotion, until Lipton had given him that _look_ and Speirs had guided them back to their room.

Now, Lipton’s skin was warm and flushed, but not with fever. He gasped as Speirs touched him, but not from shortness of breath. When Speirs rested a hand on his thigh, he trembled, but it wasn’t chills that wracked his body. 

Speirs moved down the bed, his touch light on Lipton’s skin until he was positioned between Lipton’s thighs. There, he saw the crisscrossing of scars only several months old—courtesy of a shell in Carentan that had fortunately missed anything vital. Speirs’ chest went tight at the thought of that near miss, his fingertips tensing against Lipton’s hips. The scar tissue stood out pale against Lipton’s skin, and Speirs could not help but lean forward, brushing it lightly with his nose, a touch of lips, a flash of tongue. 

Lipton, gasping in arousal and frustration, carded his fingers in Speirs’ hair. The grip wasn’t tight, but Speirs gathered its intent well enough, close as he was to where Lipton wanted him. Grinning, Speirs paid the same teasing attention to Lipton’s cock, caressing it with his face and lips until Lipton was writhing and incoherent beneath him. Only then did he take Lipton into his mouth, the weight of him heavy on his tongue.

His hands, pressing into Lipton’s hips, prevented them from bucking upwards, as Lipton let out an exhalation of breath that from anyone else would be a curse. Speirs hollowed his cheeks, sinking down, losing himself in taste and smell. His world narrowed, and he was only distantly aware that Lipton was massaging his scalp with gentle fingertips, mumbling a stream of syllables that only took on meaning in fragments. Speirs caught Lipton’s “ _Sir_ ,” repeated with increasing urgency as the body beneath him shuddered.

Part of him would love to give Lipton permission to use his first name, just as he wanted to do the same, but that was a line they hadn’t crossed yet. In spite of the fact that their current state went in the face of all regulations, there were still the trappings of military order they couldn’t shake. Maybe Lipton needed that. Maybe, without it, this became too personal, too intimate. Maybe it was only a means of coping with stress and nothing more—something indulged in once like schnapps and cigarettes—because it was easy to justify this amidst the horrors surrounding them. Speirs ignored those troubling thoughts, working his lips and tongue until Lipton gave a soft cry, spilling into his mouth. 

_Carwood, Carwood,_ Speirs repeated it in his head like a mantra, all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t. Swallowing, he nuzzled the junction of Lipton’s hip and thigh, just above the scar tissue. 

Lipton’s fingers had moved from his hair to his face, their touch increasingly insistent. Speirs, still somewhat dazed, allowed himself to be guided up Lipton’s body and drawn into an enthusiastic kiss. Lipton could surely taste himself in Speirs’ mouth, but it didn’t seem to bother him—quite the contrary, in fact. Speirs groaned, aware of his own neglected desires, and reached down to his own erection. Lipton’s hand was there, brushing his aside. 

“Allow me.” 

Speirs was happy to comply, gasping as Lipton took him in a loose-fingered grip. The touch was light, teasing—a thumb tracing the head of his cock—until Lipton found a rhythm. His grip tightened, confident and sure, while Speirs arched into him. Speirs was close already, had been just from bringing Lipton off, so it only took several pulls of Lipton’s hand before Speirs was cursing, clinging desperately to Lipton as he came. 

They ended up side by side on the bed, limbs half tangled. Speirs was aware of every movement, his senses attuned to Lipton’s breathing. It was the most alive he’d felt in months, but with it came an uncertainty of what this meant for them. It wasn’t a feeling Speirs was accustomed to. All he knew was that Lipton, Carwood Lipton, was a man who through his actions and presence garnered the respect and love of those around him, and in few more so than Speirs. 

Lipton shifted beside him, his eyes tracking a scar on Speirs’ leg.

“A potato masher in Normandy,” Speirs said by way of explanation.

“Any others?”

Speirs pursed his lips, feigning discomfort though he didn’t mind sharing the story. “I...ah...was shot in the ass. Recon mission in Holland.”

Lipton grinned. “You’ll fit right in with Easy, sir.” 

Speirs felt warmth blossom in his chest at the implied praise. Lipton hadn’t pulled away yet, and seemed content to lay beside him for the remainder of the night. It made Speirs want to take a chance—and he’d never been one to back down from a risky situation.

“Ron,” Speirs said suddenly. 

“Sir?”

“When we’re with the other officers or alone, you can call me Ron.”

Lipton smiled, a genuinely pleased expression that seemed to chase the months of weariness from his features. “Likewise, call me Carwood.” He paused, then added, “especially when we’re alone.” 

Speirs met Lipton’s eyes, the full effect of what he’d said sinking in. He pressed forward, tipping Lipton back into the mattress as he kissed him. “Carwood,” he murmured, mouth catching on Lipton’s stubble. “Carwood,” he breathed into Lipton’s temple, while Lipton gave a breathless laugh and pulled him close. “Carwood.”


End file.
